Joyless Ecstasy
by Qwara
Summary: Mr. Darcy contemplates his feelings for Elizabeth during their chance meeting at Pemberley. Oneshot. AU.


_I wrote this because I thought it would be interesting to provide some insight into Darcy's thoughts during Elizabeth's Pemberley visit. And of course, I have changed it ever-so-slightly, in that Elizabeth accepts Darcy's invitation to go inside for refreshment._

**Joyless Ecstasy**

My legs dutifully carried me across the path which I knew so well in joyless ecstasy; every curve and root in the verdant trail as familiar to me as the back of my hand; one foot going rhythmically in front of the other. My eight and twenty years' acquaintance with the path was very fortunate, for I surely would not have been able to go round the turns at all without my subconscious nudging me on. I could have written a novel with only my intricate descriptions of my grounds; but walking next to me was an enigma, whose thoughts and sentiments I yearned to know, but knew nothing of. Her features, perhaps, I knew as well as Pemberley; for every time I closed my eyes, I saw her face: she was a phantom who haunted me. In every limb of every tree; in every blade of grass in every field; in every brick of every building, it seemed that I could somehow associate her with it. Despite my best efforts, she was ubiquitous in my mind; and though I had previously despaired all hope of every calling her mine, of ever hearing the sweet whisper of her voice or brilliant luster in her dark eyes ever again, it seemed that fate would not have it that way. Was God blessing me or torturing me?

Yet, despite every fiber of my being aching with agony and rejoicing with delight, I felt that I did not know her at all. With whom did she share her darkest secrets? What _were_ her darkest secrets? I had deluded myself previously into believing that I knew the answers; but it was all conjecture. I had been blinded by my passion…and was not I still? If I could not attribute it to love, then why did my heart flutter at her mere presence? Why did my heart ache? Why did I imagine myself gathering her in my arms, and wiping away her tears, and soothing away all her troubles, for all of eternity? I had determined long ago that it was not fancy; for I could not count the number of beautiful women whose path I had been thrown in the way of, and left unaffected: and though none could not acknowledge her beauty to be superior to any other young woman's in England, I knew that I wanted to be more than to be a doleful admirer. I wanted to be in her presence every moment of every day, and know her mind as well as I knew the curve of her neck and the shape of her eyes. I wanted my comprehension of Elizabeth to be more than skin deep: I wanted to see into her soul.

Would my fantasy ever become anything more than just that? Had her opinion of me improved any? Surely if she detested me she would never have willingly toured my place of residence—but I stopped myself. It could have been morbid curiosity; it could have been only upon the persuasion of her aunt and uncle that she had resolved to go at all. She had made it explicit that she had not purposely thrown herself in _my_ path; though I yearned for it to be a lie. Was it too much to suppose that she had only said it out of politeness and—? Yes, yes it was. She was as uncomfortable as I; that much of her feelings were made apparent. I would have been ashamed of myself if I could not comprehend every expression, every idiosyncrasy, in her countenance. Though neither was I content; and I wanted her: I wanted her as desperately as that fateful day that I had made a fool of myself and begged her for her hand. I corrected my thought, however: for I had not _begged_; I had asked; though not even so much asked as had established a sense of obligation. How much did I want to beg now! I was incessantly fighting the temptation to drop to my knees and beg; for what sense of dignity had I left anyhow? I resisted by telling myself that I could not; that it would only give her pain: and that if I were to ever obtain her good opinion, I would have to do so tactfully.

Though my surroundings had been completely lost to me, they suddenly became tangible once more as the trail opened up into the clearing on which Pemberley House was situated. The small, winding path had become a wide drive. A resolution formed in my mind, that I must detain her longer; that despite my pain being more intense in her presence, so was my pleasure; and for the latter I was willing to endure the former. I was willing to endure anything. Our footsteps slowly ceased, till we were both standing before the house in mutual silence. I turned towards her, my eyes devouring the discernible, becoming blush across her face; her large chocolate eyes averting mine demurely; a gentle breeze ruffling the russet locks which twirled down her cheek. I had thought that the image I always conjured in my mind had to have been more beautiful than she; but I realized then she was more beautiful in person than she ever was in imagination. I ascertained for myself in that moment that absence truly does make the heart grow fonder, as I did not think I had ever loved her as well as I did then. I knew I had to speak; and though for a moment I despaired that I had completely forgotten how to do so, I managed to form two sentences:

"Would you like to come inside for refreshment? You must be tired."

It was clear that she was as unprepared for conversation as I was, for she started at the sound of my voice, and looked endearingly bewildered. With such an expression upon her face, it was nearly impossible to keep myself from hugging her in such a way that would increase her blushing; but knew very well that I could not. Thus, I managed to keep myself tolerably composed, though my heart involuntary leapt when her reply was (though I believe that it was said more out of surprise than being the result of many minutes' consideration),

"Yes, thank you."

Three small words, spoken in a voice as sweet as an angel's! Did she realize how they sparked hope within my soul and elated my heart? As we ascended the few stairs which led to the door through which I had trodden since my infancy, it seemed queer to me that it should be her first day to do the same; that I knew her so very little, yet thought of her more than any other being in all the universe. I feared that we would once again sink into silence; yet it delighted me when she mentioned her travels, and we engaged in some friendly, persevering conversation of Matlock and Dove Dale whilst we seated ourselves in the guest parlor. What I said, and what she said, I hardly paid any attention to: my concentration was fixed on her looks, and the tone of her voice; how she moved, and what objects about the room she glanced at. Time seemed to have completely forgotten its usual rhythm, as it raced by as quickly as the beating of my heart; and it only seemed moments when the tea which I had called for arrived. The maidservant placed a silver tray upon which were delicate cups and saucers on the side table beside me, acknowledged both of us courteously, and swiftly departed.

I absently reached for the refreshment, and handed it to her; but in that moment when the object passed between us, I became fully conscious of the seemingly ordinary action. In that moment, her finger happened to brush against mine; and I feared that I would have dropped the china, if she had not had a firm grasp on it then. After this exchange, she looked up at me with audible surprise, which assured me that she was not unaffected. It was only for a fraction of a second; but in that one millisecond, it seemed as if every empty hole in my heart had been filled; that all of my loneliness and all of my insecurities had vanished. I longed to know if it had been the same with her, though there was no roundabout way of asking it: so I only attempted to recollect my wits, and resumed our light conversation, though I believe there was a mutual understanding between us that neither of our hearts was in it. Though she certainly had no idea where her heart had gone to, I knew that mine was entirely in her possession. She had always been mistress of it: though I simply became more aware of it in that light, gentle touch.

Our tête-à-tête ended with the entrance of Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, of whom I immediately commenced making myself agreeable to. I learnt that this was not a hard task to accomplish, as they were exceedingly agreeable people in themselves; though I could not help but observe somewhat of a triumphant smile tugging at Elizabeth's lips, which gave me cause to wonder for whom she was proud. I itched to feel her touch again—and half my mind was conspiring of ways to do so—but sooner than I would have liked (indeed, any sooner than forever was sooner than I would have liked), my guests were resolved on departing. It was then that I realized my opportunity; and, after their carriage had been ordered, and the four of us watched it pull up the drive, I glanced at Elizabeth's hand more than once as my guests descended the stairs. After her uncle had situated himself happily within the vehicle, I then assisted her aunt in entering the carriage, which eliminated any possibility of Elizabeth's refusing to allow me to do the same. I then eagerly grasped her hand, though trying to conceal my alacrity. And, though the effect was reasonably dulled by her wearing gloves, the elation returned; and it was infinite regret and relief that the door to the carriage swung closed, and the resolute clip-clopping of horse's hooves announced the exit of her presence from my reality, and her return to my fanciful imagination. I turned away, and strode slowly towards the house; the house in which I had passed so many years of happiness: but it now seemed inadequate to quench my desires. When I examined it while walking back, it seemed so very empty, despite it being far from that. It seemed only ordinary. I thought perhaps that Pemberley was a reflection of me; for what did I feel but empty and ordinary? I had been very satisfied with who I was; but who I was, was no longer good enough. Without Elizabeth within Pemberley's walls, that place was nothing: without Elizabeth, _I_ was nothing. I then recalled a Bible passage:

_If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames, but have not love, I gain nothing._

My peripheral vision interrupted my internal musing and caused me to turn about to the quickly-disappearing carriage; and I realized at once why this impulse had overcome me, for there she sat, staring at me. Though she had avoided my eye almost constantly during our meeting, she was most decidedly looking at me—looking back at me. She looked back at me. And, despite my heart being scarred and fragile, it could cling to _that _with greedy fervor. At that moment, it was all that mattered. She looked back at me.


End file.
